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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24898054">Sweets</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity'>stateofintegrity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MASH (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:13:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24898054</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Klinger tries to find the way to Charles' heart.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sweets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/DazziAnta/gifts">DazziAnta</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based on a lovely piece of art that DazziAnta shared with me!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>After months at the 4077th, Charles Emerson Winchester III had become inoculated to the continual costume changes of Maxwell Q. Klinger. He no longer so much as batted an eye at tiaras, ankle bracelets, or glittery eyeshadow (which Klinger </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> pull off with those long lashes of his). The apron was interesting, though. No intricate stitching or silky ribbons in all the colors of snapdragons in June, no lace - just a hand-lettered phrase: “What’s Cooking, Good Looking?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Getting a bit desperate, are we?” he asked, just to see confusion enter those dark eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He poked at the apron. “You’ve taken to advertising. I hope it works out for you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger smiled and Charles had the sense he’d stepped into a trap. “Oh, I’m not talking to just anybody, Major. Nice of you to notice, though.” A wink followed this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winchester replied with a gesture of his own, rolling his eyes before going to eat. He was as well-accustomed to Klinger’s flirtations as he was to the hoops in his ears. The Corporal always called him “handsome” or “brilliant” when handing off his mail. But the man </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> tried to hang glide out of Korea, so he didn’t put much stock in these compliments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that scowl for the food, Charles?” BJ asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For Klinger’s latest section 8 antics, rather,” he replied - not that the food didn’t deserve being scowled at - and maybe tamed with a whip and a chair. “His </span>
  <em>
    <span>banter.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawkeye looked up at this. “He’s still flirting with you, huh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He continues to pretend to do so, yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawkeye and BJ shared a look; BJ gave a reluctant nod. “Uh, Chuck,” he began, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not pretending,” Hawkeye finished for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles indulged in a second eye roll. “Right, gentlemen. Please, by all means, extend this farce. I prefer my lunch with entertainment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Margaret turned from the knitting she’d been working on. This was more interesting. “It can’t be a section 8 thing, Charles. Sidney offered him that out more than once and he said no. Klinger isn’t gay - he’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>Klinger</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, apparently he’s changed his mind, though I have no intention of being a part of his dishonorable discharge.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> wants to be part of something else,” she told him, eyes shining. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles began to feel nervous. Pierce and Hunnicutt played jokes on him as easily as breathing, but Margaret, though possessed of a rich sense of humor she usually suppressed, was no prankster. “You aren’t serious,” he protested. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She flicked her head back toward where Klinger was working. “Don’t look now, Charles, but you’re getting some pretty moon-eyed looks from that kid in the apron.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t look. Though he did wonder how Klinger juggled all his tasks - KP, guard duty, the duties in the OR that left his skin visibly cold and pale. And he still sewed, or, in this case, </span>
  <em>
    <span>decorated</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Could</span>
  </em>
  <span> it mean something? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He resolved to put it out of his mind, but it nagged at him until days later he ended up sitting in the chair Margaret had pulled out for him in her tent. She sat on the bed, eyeing him. She decided not to tell him he looked terrified and that a look like that told her a lot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Klinger?” she asked without bothering with a greeting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It, ah, seems so.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you want to know what? If I was yucking it up for Pierce and Hunnicutt?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Charlie. I was telling the truth. If Klinger was going for a section 8, he would have tried this old game before you ever got here. Hell, on Pierce or Frank, it might’ve worked!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I, ah, that is I understood that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Major Burns…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged, waved it off. “All I’m saying is, he likes you.” The look on her face suggested that there was no accounting for taste. “And he’s a sweet kid. You could do worse.” She nudged at his knee with her foot. “Doesn’t he at least get points for his choice?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You refer to my high opinion of myself, I surmise?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her smile was warm - the smile of a friend who knew him too well. “Uh-huh. Why go against the one person who so strongly agrees with you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because it is quite illegal?” he tried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged again. “So’s a lot of stuff my nurses get into after lights out. You see me writing anybody up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not for </span>
  <em>
    <span>that,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he agreed. “But beyond the 4077th,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Major,” she interrupted, “who knows if we’ll ever get out of here? Or who we’ll be if ever do? You think anyone in Boston is putting their life on hold for you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t thought so when he was there. “No. You think the Corporal would accept so little from me? This? Here? Now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you should learn to say his name before you offer,” she teased. “But Klinger’s not stupid, Charles. He’s in the same boat. He’d just feel a whole lot safer, I think, if he didn’t have to row all by himself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Safer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. You know the poor kid’s scared to death. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>scared and I volunteered. I know you think you’re better than the rest of us, but I bet you get scared, too. Helping him take an easy breath now and then might be the best thing you do here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked so dumbfounded at this pronouncement that she couldn’t help expanding on her theme and having a little fun. “You can see it,” she urged. “Pierce and Hunnicutt are off drinking at Rosie’s. You’ve got the place to yourself. And you just </span>
  <em>
    <span>hold </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Margaret, am I, ah, correct in thinking that you are trying to make me blush?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheap entertainment,” she agreed. “But not your worst look. Klinger will be sad to have missed it.” She rested a hand on his knee, soundlessly offering encouragement. “You going to ask him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so, yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked so shyly, sweetly vulnerable in that moment that she couldn’t help what she did next. She stood and kissed his forehead. “Good.” As he departed, though, she go in one last shot, just for fun. “Charles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I wanted to make you blush, I would have reminded you how small he is. How light. You could hold him up without any trouble at all, I’ll bet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She counted the choked sound he made a victory and laughed as she went back to the letter she’d been writing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last person Klinger expected to see looking in at him from the evening dim was the haughty Major. “Post Op?” he asked, unable to keep the weariness from his tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. You aren’t needed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why are you here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you always this suspicious of visitors?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve never visited me before, Major.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would like to now. May I come in, Corporal, or shall we continue to talk through the mesh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger seemed caught, but opened the door, hurrying, Charles noted to cover some papers on his desk. “Classified information?” the surgeon teased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Recipes,” Klinger admitted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know you cooked.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only when I want to eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Corporal, you seem…” He didn’t know the word. Brittle? “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir. Just… just tired.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a lie. Charles wasn’t surprised that Klinger wasn’t good at lying; he was too open for it. “Sit down,” he told him. Then he began to move about Klinger’s space as if he owned it, covering him with a blanket, setting the kettle on the stovetop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looking after you a little. You said you were tired.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger made a birdlike sound of pain then - and it was so clear and so cutting that Winchester actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>rushed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him despite the small size of the space they shared. “You’re not tired.” He was on his knees, looking up into a face that was lost, eyes tear-glossed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” He ground a fist into one eye, hating the idea of crying in front of Winchester, but somehow unable to prevent it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Klinger, I cannot help you if you will not tell me what has you so upset.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made a new sound then - a disbelieving one. “You can’t help me, Major.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Klinger, I am an intelligent, resourceful, wealthy doctor - I can help with a great many things.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He said these words mostly as a joke, hoping to draw Klinger into one of their playful arguments by playing at being better than he was. Klinger didn’t bite. “I know all that, sir. But unless you get yourself transferred, it’s no good to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Transferred? Maxwell, are you indicating that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> am the source of your pain?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” He rubbed at his eyes again, making Charles want to still his hands because he knew that had to hurt, too. “I kinda… well, I guess I fell for you, Major.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kneeling beside him, Winchester smiled. “How did you let such a foolish thing happen?” he asked gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tried not to,” Klinger defended himself. “It’s not like I can exactly stay away from you when we work together.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, perhaps, staying away is not the solution.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you saying?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am inviting you to get closer.” He stood, sat on the other man’s cot, and patted the space beside him in welcome. His blue eyes held no hint of teasing. “If closer is yet somewhere you wish to be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The halting, trembling way Klinger came to his side was terribly flattering and now he wished he had turned to see those big-eyed looks Margaret had described. He stroked Klinger’s hair and thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I should have been looking at you all along. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He made up for it then, pulling Klinger down over him and kissing him until full dark fell - and after. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he prepared to leave the next morning, his eyes fell on the recipes and he chuckled. One for Boston cream pie lay on top. “Darling, you are such a schemer. Was your plan to win me over with food?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger looked sheepish, but shrugged. “I didn’t count on you showing up on your own. In this place, decent food’s pretty rare. Thought it was worth a try.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knowing the work he must have done to get the recipes - to say nothing of the ingredients - just made Charles love him more. Turning back, he claimed his mouth again and told him, “There is nothing you could make that would be sweeter than you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the rest of the day, Klinger brought his hand to his mouth, looking happily dazed as he recalled that kiss. He wasn’t going to argue with the Major (his Major now!) but he thought that if the man was going to keep kissing him like that, he’d never need to eat dessert again!</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>End! </span>
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